


Vigor Most Pious

by daphnerunning



Series: What is Wrought Between Us [3]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Cousin Incest, First Time, M/M, Secret Marriage, Wedding Night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:54:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27683174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daphnerunning/pseuds/daphnerunning
Summary: There should be an exchange of jewels, Findekáno thought, and words from their parents, and Grandfather beaming down at them, and a celebration the likes of which Tirion upon Túna had never seen.But the winds of Manwë were as whispers of affection from absent family. The warmth and bounty of the day were enough of a feast. And if the only jewels were the stars glittering in Varda’s canopy overhead, well, the Eldar were meant to be the people of the stars, brighter than any diamond he could have wanted.
Relationships: Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo
Series: What is Wrought Between Us [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2019358
Comments: 22
Kudos: 76





	1. Chapter 1

“What matter tradition? The world is young, is it not? All things that come to be practiced as notable and good, must come to pass for the first time once. Did Ingwë not first cross the sea, which led all Vanya and Noldor to blessed Aman? Did Grandfather not marry twice, the first elf ever to do so?”

“Perhaps not that argument, Finno. My father will not accept that as a necessary evolution in Noldorin custom.”

Findekáno considered, then nodded, his boots finding the ground solid and warm beneath them as they strode through the forest. Golden light from Laurelin’s fruits washed the world in soft amber, and the leaves were crisp beneath their soles. “My father will. For how else would have come Nolofinwë and Arafinwë, and most importantly, Findekáno the Valiant? As our creator loves us, surely we are meant to trust in our own loves, our passions, and our gifts, are we not? And thus I say,” he continued, the bit truly between his teeth, “that any who speak ill of this most desirable union speaks against the nature of these fine elves--nay, of the Noldor themselves--nay, of our creator’s wisdom and love! No free soul can compel that of another, and no works of their hands shall be prized from them. I say that my love is a work of beauty, a creation of my heart, and none can rival me for conviction.”

He considered this, and nodded, walking backwards to better view Maitimo’s face as they made their way into the woods. “What say you, cousin?”

“I say you’ve stopped a hairsbreadth short of calling the High Kings and Princes of the Eldar traitors to love and light,” Maitimo answered, amused despite himself.

“But I _did_ stop short,” Findekáno countered. “Hmm. I’ll add something about the beauty of friendship and union, that always goes over well with Manwë and Ingwë. And surely, Grandfather would like that. Would he not be pleased that the children of Indis and Miriel could be so reconciled?”

“I think the more you remind them of our shared kinship, the less they will like the idea.”

Findekáno’s head tilted as he considered something, turning to face the same direction as his cousin once more, walking three steps for every two of Maitimo’s. “Which do you think will be the largest objection, do you think? Grandfather, for our closeness in kin? My mother, for the lack of a maiden between us?”

“My father,” Maitimo said, sounding certain and resigned. “For my arrogance in not seeking his counsel first. I think perhaps he would like to assign you great and valiant deeds to prove yourself worthy of wedding a son of Fëanor. So he’s threatened in the past, when Káno thought to court a maiden of the Falmari. She thought the price too high for the prize of his voice, and he writes her no more songs.”

Findekáno sniffed. “Will any of you be suitable to marry, in his eyes?”

“Kurvo,” Maitimo answered immediately, with just a hint of bitterness. “Everything he does is correct, you know. His passions are like Father’s, so when he follows them, that is good and right. When anyone else does so, he claims that they should trust their passions more, by which he means love for smithing and one’s own mind above all else.”

“How boring that must be,” Findekáno exclaimed. “I think your mother’s statues are far more lovely than any of Kurvo’s weapons.”

“And I thought you loved my skill with a blade.”

“Aye, but I care little for the blade itself, only the way your body looks when you wield it.” Findekáno grinned, unrepentant as a flush crept up under copper waves. “How much further until this clearing you mentioned?”

“Just over the bend. Be patient.”

Patience seemed a foreign concept, something devised only as a punishment, when Findekáno thought of where they were going (he didn’t know) and what they would do there (he had some idea). It was difficult not to touch Maitimo, even more difficult than it was usually. He _always_ wanted to touch Maitimo, tall and strong and handsome, renown as the King that would be, someday. Passion warred with nerves, hunger with his longing to savor every moment, and the only emotion missing from his heart was doubt.

For three days, Maitimo had led him through the woods. The ground swelled into hills, leaves growing broad, bark turning smooth, and Findekáno watched silver light turn to gold and back again, reflected on the red of his tresses. Finally, they crested a hill, and Findekáno’s breath caught.

The outlook was magnificent. It overlooked Alqualondë, the magnificent ships bobbing gently in the harbor, each breath of the world bringing white-capped waves to dash along the shore. The cliff Maitimo showed him was high, enough that any elves moving in the city below looked like tiny dots even to Findekáno’s unerring eyes. Atop the cliff, surrounded by the golden embrace of the woods, was a clearing, set into the stone in a way that hid it from view of all save the stars, and Manwë Súlimo high on Taniquetil.

Maitimo took from his pack a large light woven blanket, spreading it over the leaves, and drew Findekáno to stand upon it with him. He clasped their hands together, and Findekáno thought he’d never seen anything so lovely, not all the stars of Varda nor any creation of a Noldorin forge, so perfect as Maitimo’s face in the mingling of the Trees. “Do not ask again,” he said, and squeezed Maitimo’s hands. “There is no need.”

Maitimo understood, Findekáno saw, and his heart felt about to burst. Before Maitimo could ask anyway, he spoke, leaving no doubt. “In the name of Eru Illuvatar, I pledge my life to you,” he said, voice unwavering, and felt no loss of truth for the lack of an audience. “Maitimo, Nelyafinwë, son of Fëanor and Nerdanel. I give you my spirit, freely and with no reservations, to join with your own. May Manwë, the Lord of Wind, watch over us, as I will watch over you for the rest of my days, until the world is remade and all things change.”

“May Varda Star-Kindler hear our calls,” Maitimo said, and his hands were trembling in Findekáno’s, from emotion rather than cold, but his voice did not shake. “In the name of Eru Illuvatar, I pledge my life to you, Findekáno, son of Ñolofinwë and Anairë, for the love I have borne since the first I saw you. I offer you my spirit, that we two may be joined, and remain un-sundered until the world is remade and all things change.”

There should be an exchange of jewels, Findekáno thought, and words from their parents, and Grandfather beaming down at them, and a celebration the likes of which Tirion upon Túna had never seen.

But the winds of Manwë were as whispers of affection from absent family. The warmth and bounty of the day were enough of a feast. And if the only jewels were the stars glittering in Varda’s canopy overhead, well, the Eldar were meant to be the people of the stars, brighter than any diamond he could have wanted.

Maitimo’s hands were on him then, as if he’d only been waiting for the end of his own vows and was unable to wait any longer. Findekáno’s breath caught, and he moved with equal fervor, clever fingers finding clasps and ties, hardly able to believe his own bravery in daring to undress the high prince in the peace of the forest, to lay him bare as the glister of Telperion faded and Laurelin’s golden glow turned everything to riches.

Maitimo’s fingers came up under his chin, tilting his face up. “Share your thoughts,” he said softly, a tenderness in his eyes that made Findekáno’s breath catch.

“That you are well-named,” Findekáno answered truthfully, and reached a hand up to rest on the silver ring hanging against Maitimo’s chest, feeling his heart beat beneath it. “That you are beautiful. And,” he added, grinning up into Maitimo’s eyes, “that I hope you know what to do next.”

Maitimo gave him a dazzling smile, and for a moment, Findekáno ached with wanting, until he remembered that he could touch, fill the desire of his hands, and he smoothed them down Maitimo’s sculpted torso, feeling the skin almost burn his palms with the fires always lit beneath. Maitimo’s own hands came up to finish undressing Findekáno, leaving their clothing pooled beneath them on the blanket, standing bare but for their silver and gold. “I know enough,” he said with assurance. “And between us, I’m confident we can work out the rest.”

Maitimo was clever and brave, and always knew what best to do. Findekáno followed his lead, as Maitimo bore him down to the blanket, covering his body with his own, stroking his chest and arms, pausing to gaze into his face at intervals as if he could not believe any elf could be so lucky.

“I thought I knew of passion and of want,” he whispered, and let the long fingers of one hand trace up Findekáno’s thigh. “Dreaming of you is nothing to what I feel when you’re here.”

Findekáno let out a strangled noise, and tangled one hand in Maitimo’s hair, reaching down with the other to curl around the long shaft of his cock, making him gasp. “You aren’t the only one who burns in dreams, _ĕrĕmelda_ ,” he breathed, and surged up, rolling Maitimo onto his back, unable to stand the slow pace any longer.

He’d thought, the night they’d pledged on the slopes of Taniquetil, that he had made a complete catalogue of the places they would touch. Now, the list seemed dreadfully incomplete, and he added items greedily, as if the opportunity would be snatched away at any time.

“This is an act of worship, isn’t it?” he asked, breathless with laughter and desire, shifting down to better feel the brush of Maitimo’s hip against his inner thigh, glorying in how each touch he gave made his beloved--his _husband_ \--shiver with hunger. “Our consummation, a sacrament? I shall set myself to it with a vigor most pious.”

“I feel the vigor,” Maitimo groaned, and dragged a hand down his back. “I’ve never thought of you as particularly _pious_ , beloved--“

“No? Then allow me to demonstrate.”

This might all be quite new to him in practice, but Findekáno had dreamed of this day for nearly a century, long before his majority. He kissed Maitimo’s neck, and managed to tangle their legs together in a way that felt _most_ pleasing, when he rocked down against Maitimo’s hip, and felt Maitimo’s own cock in turn against his stomach. “In your vow,” he said, trying to hold the thread of his thought when all his thoughts were turning to the shift of his hips, the urgent, eager rock of their bodies together. “You said--you’ve loved me--Valar, Maitimo, that feels _good_ \--since first--you saw me--“

Maitimo let out a helpless wreck of a noise, his own hips shoving up in needy circles. “Aye,” he agreed, the word ragged. “Finno, always--“

Findekáno moaned against that fair chest, cursing his lack of height, or better yet, Maitimo’s over-abundance of it. “I remember that day. When, nnh, Father brought me to the Great Square for the first time.”

“Finno, please,” Maitimo whispered, sounding so overwhelmed Findekáno thought he should be moved to pity. Instead, the sound inflamed him, and he ground down harder, dragging his hands up, rubbing them over Maitimo’s chest in a way that made him yelp.

“I knew, too.”

Findekáno strained upwards, and managed a kiss to the bottom of Maitimo’s chin. It wasn’t nearly enough to sate him, but nothing would be, not now they were together, with time and privacy and the assumed blessings of the Valar. He felt everything between them grow sticky and slick, each thrust easier than the last, Maitimo’s body burning like a naked fire beneath his own skin. “Makalaurë called you Russandol,” he whispered, the pleasure making him doggedly intent, even as Maitimo threw a hand over his face, overwhelmed. “Your father called you Nelyo. My mother called you Maitimo. I was no more than a child, but I knew then, Maitimo, that you would always be mine, I _knew_ \--“

Maitimo was so strong and moved so quickly that Findekáno couldn’t tell what was happening when he struck. There was a rush of impact, the world spun, and suddenly, he was on his back, the blanket’s soft weave against his bare skin, and Maitimo was moving on top of him. All he saw was beauty and russet waves come free of their braids, and then the High Prince of the Noldor was resting a long-fingered hand on his chest, holding him down. “I can’t wait any longer,” Maitimo said, strained, and all Findekáno could tell from the angle was that Maitimo was doing _something_ with his other hand. “I tried. Forgive me for not drawing it out, Finno, but I can’t.”

Findekáno’s mind was blank. Wait any longer? Weren’t they finished with waiting? Wasn’t that the extremely enthusiastic sacred act they’d been practicing? “Maitimo, what--“

Maitimo moved, straddling his hips, and suddenly, the world constricted into tight sweet hot unexpected bliss. There was a sense of pressure, then a sudden easing, and Findekáno was left staring dumbly up at his cousin, watching him rock down, slowly, determinedly filling himself with Findekáno’s cock.

Something like a blasphemy spilled from Findekáno’s mouth, and Maitimo gave him a tense, breathless laugh. “A sacrament, remember? Just--I’m nearly there, I think, is it--is there much left?”

Findekáno tried to rearrange the world in his mind, a sudden understanding of a hundred and thirty years of off-color jokes suddenly making sense. He looked down, and nodded, swallowing hard. “Ah...I think that’s...about half? Maitimo, I didn’t know...”

Maitimo kissed him deeply enough that he could feel each tremor and shudder running through his body, and knew that only some of them were of pleasure. Maitimo broke the kiss with a tight hiss, throwing back his head as he rocked his hips down, and Findekáno tried hard to think of anything other than the sheer pleasure engulfing him.

In the end, that proved impossible. Perhaps if Maitimo had not been making those urgent, needy little noises, as if being full of Findekáno was what he’d been privately longing for for more than a century, he could have managed it. Perhaps if Maitimo hadn’t been running his hands all over Findekáno’s chest, clutching at his hair, he could have held himself together. Perhaps if Maitimo hadn’t been whispering, “Á, Finno, harder, I never want to stop, you feel so _good_ \--“ he could have held on.

Perhaps not.

Likely not.

No, Findekáno thought ruefully, as he succumbed to more delight than he’d thought possible for one soul to feel, there was no hope for him holding out. And yet, as he threw back his head, as Maitimo cried out on top of him, as he spilled inside his beloved with hot, desperate pulses, the joy was so complete that all he could do was laugh.

Maitimo’s arms came around him, holding him close, their breaths mingling, and Findekáno couldn’t tell if one or both of them was weeping. They were both shuddering, hiccuping, clinging to each other through wet kisses. Maitimo’s hands came up to his hair, stroking and soothing, and he shifted them until Findekáno was lying on his side, cheek pressed against Maitimo’s chest, listening to his heartbeat.

Findekáno didn’t know how long they lay there, their hearts beating in time, as the golden light of Laurelin began to mingle once again with Telperion’s gilt. The stars themselves bore witness, and each rustling breeze or bend of leaf felt like approval from the Valar, to a young elf seeing what he wanted to see.

“Oh,” he remarked, after long enough that he marked the grass around them had grown a bit. “I haven’t got a ring for you yet.”

Maitimo huffed out a laugh, his chest rising under Findekáno’s cheek. “As if I don’t have everything from you that I could want,” he murmured, fingers carding through black hair threaded with gold. “The Valar care not what rings we wear. No more do I.”

Findekáno was quiet for another long moment, then asked carefully, “But you would wear it, aye? You aren’t...you don’t mean to keep this a secret forever, surely?”

Maitimo’s arms went tight around him, making him let out a small grunt. “Of course not. And with that speech upon your lips, who could refuse us?”

“They couldn’t in any case,” Findekáno replied, resting a hand on Maitimo’s chest. “They might speak against a betrothal, surely, but this is a marriage.”

“It is,” Maitimo agreed, and took that hand, bringing it to his mouth to kiss the backs of Findekáno’s fingers. “And will never be otherwise.”


	2. Chapter 2

Illustration of the Vow-Taking scene, by [Kat](https://versailles-fairytale.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> Subscribe to the series, there is no schedule I'm just writing like my hand is on fire from holding a Silmaril


End file.
